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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29382954">Fashion Sense</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperBeech/pseuds/CopperBeech'>CopperBeech</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aziraphale loves Crowley, Aziraphale loves dessert, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Blow Jobs, Crowley loves Aziraphale, Fashionable Crowley, Gratuitous Smut, In This Case Crowley Is Dessert, Inspired by Art, It's Incapacitate Your Demon Day, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Semi-Public Sex, Smut, Temptation</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 07:19:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,655</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29382954</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperBeech/pseuds/CopperBeech</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley likes dressing to tempt his angel. He never manages to stay in control of things for long.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>144</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Fashion Sense</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Completely gratuitous smut, inspired by a Tumblr art post that rendered me feral in mid-scroll. Will link if I get the artist's permission.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Why,” says Aziraphale rather tartly as the shop door <em>finally</em> falls shut behind the one persistent customer, “don’t you just come right out and say you want me to suck your cock?”</p><p>It’s wicked of Crowley, he knows that, but then what else is he supposed to be? He can’t resist novelty, or the knowledge that he’s not just a tempter but Temptation itself, packaged up in whatever the mortals have conceived to adorn their corporations ever since fig-leaf aprons left you thinking about what was under them. That was an inspiring consequence of the Fall. He hadn’t anticipated it, but he’d been glad to take credit, and learn from the happy accident.</p><p>He’d made a point of being oh, so insouciant as he slouched into the bookshop – looking from left to right as if to check whether Aziraphale had moved any of the dust since the day before, the neck of a bottle of Shiraz cinched between two fingers, swinging with the rhythm of his slithering gait because his thumbs were hooked in the pockets of his new trousers. The pinstripes emphasize his lanky height and the way the snug dark-grey gabardine bulges a bit at the crotch, is that a peccadillo in your pocket or are you just happy to see me? If anyone’s slow on the uptake, the placket of the knitted shirt is open right to his navel in a long vee, an arrow pointing to the matter at hand, or soon to be. Aziraphale’s running a soft fingerpad lazily down from the bony goblet of his collarbones. He doesn’t know what’s more gratifying, the slow trace of angelic touch – there’s always a whisper of cold burn about it, and it always sets off a throb in his belly – or the drunken, unfocused look in the blue eyes behind the half-moon glasses Aziraphale’s probably forgotten he’s wearing.</p><p>“I can’t believe you walked down the pavement like that without being arrested for inciting a riot.” The finger moves over the S-curve of a gold-plated serpent that closes the narrow belt. How exactly to get this open? He likes to set the angel puzzles. He’s already hard, pushing the expensive fabric up against the gilded tail, and the thoughtful slide of a thumb back and forth over the tip of the bulge makes him hiss.</p><p>“Subtle, me,” he says.</p><p>“Anything but.”</p><p>He’s got his back against Eighteenth-Century Poets And Essayists (though, this being Aziraphale’s shop, there’s a hand-illustrated book of botany and a collection of travel stories just behind his left shoulder) and they’re nominally out of sight of the door, but Crowley knows how the chance of being caught excites his angel, now that it’s no longer a case of anything worse than shocking a random customer who can be sorted with a casual miracle. Seeks out ways to provoke the shudder of anticipation and apprehension he feels in that ladylike hand as the knuckles run up his taut length, rubbing, coaxing. It’s not going to take much to make him stain the brand-new tailoring, and doesn’t the little bastard know that?, pressing harder, releasing, teasing and palming.</p><p>“Presentation means so much,” says the angel, bending his head to that tender divot between his clavicles. “It shows care and refinement.” It’s turned out to be as good as he’d always imagined it, watching Aziraphale savour comfits and sherbets and desserts (<em>presented</em>, always, just so on the plate, with an artful drizzle of syrup or balsamic reduction). The touches of tongue and lips are almost too delicate to feel at first; then a slow cursive script meanders up the cord of his neck, toward that spot behind his ear that always makes his hair prickle.</p><p>“How shall I unwrap this lovely package?” the angel breathes. “Where ever to begin?” The question seems rhetorical, because the hand that isn’t gripping his sharp hipbone – the thumb drawing circles close to his, oh Satan, <em>leaking</em> cock – rises to tighten in his hair, tip his head back. A scrape of dainty teeth over his throat just below the Adam’s apple. A liquid sensation shivers down his belly muscles, making them tighten, pressing him up into the ghosting hand that lingers over the trouser fastenings.</p><p>“Or should I enjoy the wrappings?” The fabric of the shirt’s a stretchy viscose, and his nipples have been peaked beneath it ever since that first breath against his throat. Blond curls trail over the striped lapels as the angel moves them aside, finds a tight knot of flesh through the cloth, grazes over it with his lips and then traps it between hesitant teeth. Tongues it at one remove, the chill as air gradually hits the dampness drawing it painfully tight. Crowley rocks his hips, looking for the pressure of a hand that keeps skating away, tracing his shape, teasing the insides of his thighs and the curve of his arse but never quite, <em>please, there</em>.</p><p>There’s a little concavity at the bottom of his breastbone, and angel lips linger there, a gentle suction that doesn’t quite stop as the kiss glides downwards. Aziraphale grasps the shelf as he slips to his knees; adjusts the reading glasses on his tip-tilted nose as if he’s consulting a gazetteer or thesaurus and not the complexities of a demon’s garments. Crowley grips the shelf too, to stop himself helping.</p><p>“Ah, I see, if I lift this away and slide out here… it only<em> looks</em> complicated.” But he takes his time, opening the buckle and turning it back as if he’s smoothing the pages of a rare volume, then unhooking the placket and sliding the zip open with the same near stealth. It makes Crowley’s cock pulse. <em>Satan</em>, he’s not going to last if this is Aziraphale’s speed. The pants underneath are already wet and he adds helplessly to the spreading stain.</p><p>“So very lovely,” says the angel, and tilts his head to rake Crowley’s shaft with the shivery trace of a bite, graze over the flare at his tip. His tongue prods. “I could suck you right through these, you know. Silk, aren’t they?  Barely there. But you’d feel the difference. Want more, wouldn’t you?” Aziraphale goes on lightly indenting his length, a slowly penned dedication, because everything about Aziraphale is language, the copperplate and kanji of his tongue-tip, the Braille of his sucking love-nips. Crowley can’t stop fingers sliding through the silky curls, barely holds himself back from pressing against the exploring mouth, <em>please, angel.</em></p><p>Aziraphale shakes his head, more the suggestion of a movement than anything, grips the demon’s hand: “I shan’t be rushed,” he murmurs. Lips cover teeth to clip and prod the shank of his cock where it curves a little back to point at his navel, tenting the silk boxer briefs, nudging out of the waistband. Warm breath comes teasingly close to the exposed tip; then there’s the tonguescript again, a feathery flicker sampling the drizzled syrup, the balsamic sweetness of this studied presentation.</p><p>“Oh, you’re very eager, aren’t you?” Aziraphale pulls back, examines his canvas through the half-moon glasses before lifting them away, folding them carefully one-handed to set them on the shelf. Those perfect teeth close on the silk fly to tug it downward, so that Crowley gasps as the air hits him.</p><p>The plump cheeks, the upturned nose rub against his length, the angel filling himself with the scent. Serpent that he is, Crowley can whiff it, a faint reptilian musk, and Aziraphale too, bergamot and amber in his cologne and something even more delicate and indefinable that he can only call <em>essence of angel.</em> The air’s cool on his arse as the trousers drop a few inches at a one-fingered tug, the sharp pinpoint suction enough to make him jump as the angel leaves a dot-dash line of code over his belly, something he'll wear when the rest of the ensemble's scattered piecemeal over the floor and the furniture.</p><p>“Gonna make a mess out of you, angel.”</p><p>“I devoutly hope so.” And <em>devout</em> is how he looks, head bowed, hands raised almost in prayer against Crowley’s hips, there’s an angel kneeling in front of him and he’s never felt less in charge of anything. A high whine escapes his throat and his fingers dig into beige cashmere as he finds himself swallowed up without warning, bucking into a heat that engulfs him to the root.</p><p>“<em>Fuck, </em> angel. Want you in me. Want you all over me. Want you to take everything.” Crowley’s always a little cold, he barely knows what it is to perspire, but a bloom of sweat prickles out on his chest and the back of his neck, a little trickle at the base of his spine. The soft grip on his hipbones moves around to cup his arse, he’s holding himself up half-doubled over the cashmere shoulders, whimpering as he feels his bare tip tongued and sucked, grunting from somewhere far down inside him as he slides deep again. There’s a moment that obliterates all thought, if you asked him his name he’d have no answer, wouldn’t even understand the question, and the squeeze and thump of muscles at his centre punches the breath out of him.</p><p>He’s vaguely aware of being swung around in strong arms. Slid onto a sofa, cushions tucked.</p><p>“You seem a bit overdressed for this,” comes the angel’s voice through a haze.</p><p>“Y’think?”</p><p>Soft fingers lift his sunglasses away.</p><p>“There, that’s better. It’s quite tantalizing to have you while you’re still in most of your clothes like this, but I do miss your lovely eyes. I’ll be less headlong next time.”</p><p>“Mph. Next time." His lips feel thick and his serpent tongue isn't cooperating. "When would that be?”</p><p>“Well, it depends, my dear. I rather fancy trying different things as the layers come off, jacket, shirt, hm, I believe there’s time before our dinner reservations… Can you get upstairs on your own, or shall I carry you?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>finis</em>
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